


Brimstone Fell Upon My Ears

by Makalaure



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: On the fourth night, Steve takes the clock from his bedside and levers out the batteries.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Lay Me Down' by the Oh Hellos.

“Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?” — Evelyn Waugh

**Brimstone Fell Upon my Ears**

On the fourth night, Steve takes the clock from his bedside and levers out the batteries. The ticking just reminds him of how long he has been awake, that the darkness is melting into the morning again. He tosses the clock in the bedside drawer, gets up and brews himself a cup of tea, and does not drink it. When he looks around his room, he can only think,  _There's a door instead of a curtain_ , and considers kicking it down.    
  
The bed he's sitting on is clean and firm and big enough for his bulk, and he rested better on the dirt with a tattered blanket and Bucky's arm thrown over him. His fingers are stiff and chilled around his now tepid cup, but he has not bought a heater – the biting discomfort roots him, reminds him he is alive, even if he should not be. Outside, autumn has brought with it a sense of quiet, and Steve wants  _noise_ , wants distraction, and his three-hour morning runs aren't enough to wipe his thoughts anymore (they never were, really).   
  
"Steve, for the love of God, get out," says Hill later that afternoon. "Or we're taking you off our active roster and getting you a therapist."   
  
Steve obeys, if only because he hates the idea of lying down on a couch while someone sits up with a notebook and scrutinizes him – it's a kind of power imbalance he is horribly uncomfortable with. He walks through the streets with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, at once bitterly indifferent and morbidly curious. His eyes are drawn to the outlandish and diverse things people wear, the purple lipstick, the hot pink jackets, the burkhas. The weather prevents him from staring too much, since most people are wearing coats; in summer, he constantly had to remind himself not to gawk and think, Gosh, they're not wearing very much, are they.  
  
When he passes by a candy store, he does a double take, because in his mind ‘candy’ always goes hand-in-hand with ‘the Buchanans’, and the memories slam into him with the force of a punch. He stares at it for long enough that someone walking by shoves him, and he scrambles inside on impulse, the little bell tinkling as the door opens. It's actually pretty old-fashioned, with jars and jars of sweets lining the shelves. He peers at them, idly reading the labels, finding to his surprise that he recognises many of them: M&M's and caramels and jawbreakers and lemon drops and candy buttons, as hideously colourful as ever.

His throat closes up. Mrs. Barnes would give him those acrid boiled sweets every time he visited; mostly, he would pop them straight away into his mouth; sometimes he’d take them back to his mother, press them at her insistently, and sit watching her eat them, wishing he couldn't count the ribs beneath her skin, that her fingers weren’t so cold all the time.   
  
Before he knows it, he's at the counter asking for a bunch of the stuff. He's surprised they're still around - why keep such simple, old-fashioned things when you have stuff like Oreo-filled milk chocolate? Do they even sell?   
  
He waits till he gets home before he puts one in his mouth. It tastes exactly the same as it did when he was twelve (or he thinks it does – maybe he's reaching), lemony and tangy and totally synthetic. Before it can dissolve on his tongue, his eyes sting and great fat tears slide down his cheeks, and he sits down on his bed because he's thinking of his ma and Arnie and Bucky and his legs feel all wobbly. He cries quietly while he sucks his way through his handful of sweets. They don't even taste that good and aren't really filling but he still finishes them, and crushes the wrappers in his sticky hand when his shoulders begin to shake.   
  
He doesn't know how long he sits there. Eventually he wipes his nose with his sleeve, gets up, and chucks the wrappers in the dustbin. 

  
***

  
There's a middle-aged woman at an outdoor cafe wearing a deep Merlot lipstick and Steve stares and stares until she glances at him with a frown and he realises he's being a total cad. He turns away, but then can't help but look back – it's the same shade Peggy used, or near it, and in that moment he misses her more than ever, more than anything. He misses her rich brown curls and her bright, focused eyes and her sharp wit and oh God, he would have married her, he would have married her after a single dance, if she were willing.   
  
There's a lump in his throat and he's far past embarrassment – waking up in another century puts things in perspective – so he gets up and walks over to the woman and says, "Excuse me, Ma'am, if you don't mind my asking, what shade of lipstick is that? I'd like to buy one for my – my girl." He's never felt guilty about lying and he's not about to start now.  
  
The woman jerks, seeming wary, but then relaxes and smiles. "That's very sweet of you. Your girlfriend is lucky to have such a considerate man."  
  
Steve smiles stiffly and thanks her, and scribbles the name of the lipstick on his forearm with a ballpoint pen the woman hands him from her purse. He goes to the store and asks to see a tester, and when the assistant hands it to him he almost has a heart attack when he sees the price (he's not even used to new food prices, let alone _this_ ). So he just stands there and gapes at it till the assistant goes away, and then, on a whim, he streaks the lipstick across the back of his hand and smudges it with his thumb, so it looks like Peggy might have kissed him there.   
  
He is pummeled with a grief so raw that he shoves the tube back on the shelf and scrambles out. There is a string of people, endless like ants, crisscrossing around him, looking at their cell phones, talking, laughing. Breathe. In, out, in, out. Slowly. In. Out.   
  
When he finally, finally gets home, he opens up the sketchpad SHIELD had provided him and sits with an HB pencil at his desk. The supplies are better than anything he has ever worked with, the paper just the right amount of grainy, the pencil smooth and sharp and dark. He tries to sketch Peggy, capture the twinkle in her eyes and the restlessness of her body, but the lines are all wrong, she doesn't look the same, and he panics because  _he_   _can't remember her properly_. For a while he just breathes deeply, trying to calm his hammering heart, and then hurls the pencil across the room with a roar.

Through the fog of his emotions, he is ashamed, at his weakness, at his rage, but he cannot bring himself to care.

***

**  
Three months ago**

  
_In the file, Tony seems broader in the shoulders, and not nearly as pale, but he still looks a **lot** like Howard. They even have the same moustache, and Steve would recognise that cocky tilt of the head anywhere. Stark blood, he thinks with fond exasperation. They could be friends. Perhaps Tony is the same sort of wide-eyed futurist, serious about technology and easy to talk to. Maybe he'll make a flying car that actually flies._  
  
_He meets Tony and he's wrong. Steve is no stranger to not liking people – for all his desire to protect everyone, he dislikes more people than he likes, and Tony, in this century, is near the top of the 'dislike' list, just below Loki. He is everything that pisses Steve off about the new century: flamboyant, with none of his father's easy warmth, shallow, and self-absorbed. Howard could put on a show, but Tony is ostentatious and frivolous both on and off the stage._  
  
_Steve is...a lot angrier than he should reasonably be. He always had issues with his temper, but he is shocked at his own vitriol when it comes to Tony. He cannot help but feel deeply betrayed, and a childish part of him wants to kick and scream, wants to yell, **I could have had at least one link to my actual life!** It's not Tony's fault he isn't exactly how Steve wants him to be, but there's an alien invasion looming over their heads and a nuke about to blow Manhattan to kingdom come and there is no time to apologise._ 

_When Tony jolts awake, eyes wild and hair bloody, Steve smiles, and for a few precious seconds the grey mist over his world lifts, and he knows he looks like an idiot, because since he woke up, it's the first time he's smiled and meant it, really meant it._

**_Hey, Buck_ ** _, he thinks fuzzily, still stupid with a nameless joy as Tony babbles at a mile a minute, **I think you'd have liked this one**. _

  
***

  
Steve is taken aback. "You want me to..."  
  
"Come live at Avengers Tower, Cap," Tony says, rocking on his heels with his hands pushed into his pockets. "It's free, it's good for team morale, and it's better than that closet you call an apartment in Brooklyn. Come on, I'll give you a tour."  
  
"I...I really don't - "  
  
"Your floor is above Natasha's and below Thor's."  
  
"My floor?"  
  
"You're an Avenger, you put your life on the line daily for poor unsuspecting citizens; it's the least you deserve," says Tony, waving a hand as the elevator shoots higher and higher above New York.   
  
"That's not why I do it," Steve says, ruffled. He knows Tony is an honest man – really, when is he _not_ honest? – but Steve had grown up as the son of Irish immigrants in the Lower East Side. His opinion of the 1% had never been particularly charitable to begin with. And while he now regards Tony with respect and no small amount of embarrassment for how _wrong_ he had been about him, he can't get used to the 500-dollar glasses and 1,000-dollar suit and goatee that must require more maintenance than it's worth. It all makes him want to run to his apartment and stick his nose in his old tatty duvet and run his fingers along his yellowed books. He is unaccustomed to this bright and burnished world of glass and metal and silicone.  
  
Tony chatters happily as he herds Steve through the Tower, and when Steve is ushered onto his quarters, he gapes at the floor-to-ceiling windows and smooth white bookshelves and colossal king-sized bed. You could fit a family of four onto that bed. Steve says so, dazed, and Tony laughs and spreads his arms wide. "It's all yours, Cap."  
  
"It's...I...Tony, I can't."  
  
A crease appears in Tony's brow. "I told you, it's free, Cap. You don't have to pay a cent."  
  
"Tony, this is...this is so generous of you. I appreciate it, I do. But I just..." He sighs and takes another look at the place, wiping his sweaty hands on his T-shirt. He feels dirty just standing here, his shoes squeaky and his pants worn. It's too luxurious, too impersonal, a cookie-cutter minimalist get-up for people more like Tony Stark than him. Steve really doesn't understand minimalism. (He doesn’t understand a lot of things.) "I'd just rather stay at my apartment," he mumbles, looking at his shoes and hoping Tony will not take offence.   
  
Tony seems disappointed, but covers it up quickly, and Steve gets a flash of what Tony’s entire life must be like. "Okay, nothing we can do about that. It's a standing offer, just FYI." He claps Steve on the shoulder, then escorts him down, waves goodbye. When he struts back inside, Happy in tow, the light glints off his sunglasses, pushed up into his curls. Steve stands outside the Tower, gazing up at its sleek one-way windows, and then turns around and begins to trudge back towards Brooklyn, his heart heavy with something he cannot place.

  
***

"This is...Indian?" Steve tries.

He had learned, quickly, that he could not resist Tony's gregariousness for long. Only a week after he turned Tony down, he got a call, and before he could open his mouth, Tony said, "You and me, 12 noon today," and gave him the address. Steve had been left gaping at the phone, wondering how he could so easily have been bulldozed into going out. He is twice Tony's size. He served in WWII. He should not be this easy.

Turns out, he is, in fact, that easy.

“Thai,” corrects Tony, clapping his hands and rubbing them together with glee.

Steve looks at his curry and rice and internally sighs. He eats a hefty amount, but only because he has to – he isn’t stupid enough to go for thirty-mile runs and demolish twelve punching bags with nothing for fuel. Even with the serum, he would collapse.

But he no longer enjoys his food. While he had never been enamoured with it the way Bucky was (poor as Steve was, he learned to carefully distance himself from it at an early age), he happily wolfed down a hearty steak or apple pie or casserole, especially if he was in good company. Now, he just sits at his kitchen table and spoons bland stuff into his mouth – baked chicken and rice and vegetables and oatmeal, bowls and bowls of it. It is nutrition. He needs it to live. That is all.

Needless to say, he has tried almost nothing on the list of exotic cuisines Sam had handed him.

Tony looks at him expectantly, and Steve takes a bite just to appease him. He registers, dimly, that it tastes strange – he is unused to so many spices – but good, though he cannot work up a real appetite. Nonetheless, he finishes his portion and takes two more, because his great hulking body is unforgiving when it is short on sustenance (and jeez, he’s still surprised that he towers over most people, that he _can't_ get into fistfights with random assholes anymore because he could seriously fucking hurt them. Bucky had grinned at that, both smug and relieved ( _Ha, I don’t have to scrape your ass off the floor then_.)

“That was great,” says Tony, wiping his mouth with his paper napkin. “Don’t tell me, you loved it, didn’t you?”

Steve gives what he hopes is a polite smile, and puts down his spoon.

***

  
He spends the next fortnight in a haze. When he is not running in the park or beating the stuffing out of a punching bag, he is reading _The_ _Lord of the Rings_  – it is about the only joy in his new life, this wordy thing carried over from the last century (he’d read  _The Hobbit_  back in ’42, courtesy an old girlfriend of Bucky’s, and fallen head over heels). It hits all the right spots, is heroic without brushing aside the ugliness of humanity, is idealistic without being sanctimonious. It occupies a permanent place on his bedside table, along with his lamp and bottle of water.

(Hill keeps telling him things like Go out and Have some fun and Socialise, but he hasn't the energy, which is strange, because he's as strong as ever, if not stronger with modern sustenance. And he still does not understand how to talk to people here.)

One night, he is lying on his couch with his nose buried in  _The Two Towers_  when there is a sharp rap at his door. Confused, he gets up and squints through the peephole to find Tony standing there with his hands in his pockets, his hair sticking up in his usual weird contemporary style.

“What,” Steve says, as he opens the door, “are you doing here?”

Tony breezes past him and stands looking around. Even in a Black Sabbath T-shirt and jeans, he appears out of place: the way he carries himself, the way he walks, his head high, with an exaggerated swagger, almost a feminine sway of his hips. It all smacks of someone who lives a life right out of a glossy magazine. “Nice closet. Is it attached to a room?”

“It’s 11 pm.”

“It’s got that powdery, grandma-y smell. Do you ever open the windows? Maybe it's better you don't; it's freezing in here.”

“It’s a work day tomorrow.”

“You might be using women’s deodorant, you probably don’t even read the labels – ”

“Tony,” says Steve more firmly, “what do you want?”

Tony turns to him and says in a mock-hurt voice, “Do I need a reason to visit a friend?”

 _We’re not friends_ , Steve almost says, before realising that would be a bit too brusque and possibly not true. They are, if nothing else, acquaintances, or at least teammates on good terms. So he sighs and says, “Tea? Coffee?” because Sarah Rogers didn't raise a lout.

He thinks with trepidation that Tony will respond with, “Whiskey, actually,” (Steve doesn’t keep alcohol and has firm views about people who drink too much) but Tony only says, “I’d say coffee, but you probably use some awful instant Nescafe.”

 _We had it in the forties. It tastes different_ , Steve thinks, but only raises an eyebrow.

“Then again, even instant coffee is better than tea, so.” Tony plops down on the couch where Steve had been lying, crossing his knees and grinning at him, looking perfectly comfortable. Steve cannot help but be amused through his exasperation (and really, doesn't that sum up his attitude towards Tony Stark?), and goes to rustle up the coffee. He returns with two steaming mugs, and Tony makes grabby hands for one, settling back when Steve gives it to him.

Steve still does not know why Tony is here. They don't say anything as they sip their drinks, Tony huddling in his jacket and Steve sitting cross-legged on the rug on the floor. Tony is clutching his mug to his chest, and that is how Steve is reminded of the arc reactor, of its pale blue glow, hidden now by layers of clothing. It must be difficult for Tony to cover up in the summer; does he go about bare to the waist at pools and beaches, or does he always have a top on? Guiltily, he realises that he never asked Tony about it, never bothered to make sure he was not in pain while on missions.

“Does it…hurt?” he asks. “The…” He gestures to his own chest.

Tony gives him a long look. Then he shrugs. “Not really. Most of the tissue around it is dead.” He pauses. “It’s just a little heavy. Runs pretty warm, too, which is nice in winter.” _And unbearable in summer_ goes unspoken.

Steve jerks; he had never considered that. Having a metal tube where most of your sternum should be. Having to adjust to an alien weight in your body, bathing with it, sleeping with it. Does it dig into Tony's ribs? What happens if he is jolted? “It must have been a huge shock,” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself, “waking up to find that thing in you.” He knows a thing or two about waking up to a shock; he can sympathise.

Tony’s face is carefully blank. “I was awake for some of the surgery. Didn’t know what was happening, exactly. Too much pain. Blood loss. I was delirious. Thankfully, there was chloroform,” he adds dryly. “But, yeah.”

“You…what?” says Steve. Tony had been  _awake_? That had not been in the file, which had been cut and dry and to the point. Then his brain catches up with the rest of what Tony said, and his stomach roils. He puts down his coffee. Of course. Of  _course_  there had been no anaesthesia. Tony had been a prisoner of terrorists, not a guest at a hotel. Steve had just never thought of that, too caught up in his own grief and misery at being thrown into a new century. And, dear God, there had probably been no proper medicine for the pain post-surgery, either.

“It was powered by a car battery,” Tony continues, looking at a spot beyond Steve’s shoulder. “Ingenious, really.”

A _car battery_? Steve suppresses a vicious curse. “You must have been effectively chained to one spot,” he says faintly.

Tony shakes his head. “I carried it around. All the time. Interrogations. Waterboarding. Building the Iron Man. I just held onto that thing like…ha, well, my life did depend on it, so.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Wow, sorry, did not mean to tell you any of that. Ignore me, I talk a lot.” He clears his throat and puts his cup down on the table, and Steve realises for the first time that Tony is... _nervous_. He's always restless and jittery and talking without thinking, and how did Steve not notice before?

Maybe it's that Tony has laid himself bare; maybe it's the late hour, the weariness, that has him splitting at the seams. “When I came out of the ice,” Steve says, picking at his sweatpants, “and could gather my wits, the first thing I thought was, ‘I had a date.’” He wraps his arms around his knees. “Which was stupid. I wasn’t gonna make it. We both knew.”

Tony nods. “Peggy Carter.”

“It was all set. I’d accepted it. I was going to meet her in the afterlife.” He closes his eyes. He does not like to think about the pain of the water. He dreamt of it, for days, after the ice. “Then I woke up.” He feels raw, vulnerable in a way he never has, to expose himself in front of someone. But he also feels…lighter. Cleaner. Like he has drained an infected wound. He wonders if Tony feels the same way. If his dreams, when they come, are only distorted memories of the blood, the jeers, the darkness. Tony may never have been a soldier, but he is a survivor – trauma has been chained around his DNA as much as Steve’s.

Steve is not  _happy_  that Tony got captured – he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy – but he takes comfort in knowing that there is someone who understands. No records exist of someone like Steve, but in Tony’s soft dark eyes he finds sympathy, without pity, and something else. It is not idealism, but something like grit, which Steve thinks is a different kind of hope, a kind that says, 'I will _make_  it better'.

He has never considered Tony charismatic before.

That night, after Tony leaves, Steve lies awake in his bed again, looking at the broken moonlight on the ceiling, but is not discontent.

***

After that, Tony seems to make it his personal mission to hound Steve as often as possible without actually stalking him. He takes him out to cafes and museums and parks and theatres, insisting on paying and leaving enormous tips and a trail of screaming fans in their wake, and Steve is too overwhelmed to refuse, trundling after him like a puppy. Sometimes, Tony just shows up at Steve’s apartment, at random hours, always with a big smile, often with impressive bruises beneath his eyes – Steve never invites him.

There are days when the loneliness is so oppressive that it becomes an undercurrent to all his thoughts; as he jabs and ducks, as he pays for milk and eggs, as he sketches the new buildings in Brooklyn, it is there, reminding him that he is not home, that he does not belong, that he likely never will. Those days are the most difficult. People eye him appreciatively and then frown and hightail it out of there the second he opens his mouth – he is too old fashioned, all 'ma'ams' and 'gollys' and 'shucks', painfully, appallingly earnest for this world of masks and lies and one-night stands, unschooled in the ways of this new society.

When Tony is around, it is easier. Steve never tells him.

He learns more about world pop culture with Tony than he did with SHIELD officials. Tony introduces him to so much  _stuff_ that Steve abandons his notebook altogether. There's everything from Iranian music from the 50's to Nigerian cuisine, and a baffling amount of literature that he's pretty sure Tony has never actually read. ("Tony, please thank Miss Potts and Colonel Rhodes for the recommendations.")  _Gitanjali_ , he ends up buying, as well as  _Kafka on the Shore_ ,  _The Famished Road_ , and various stories by Anita Desai and Soseki Natsume.

And during it all, Steve feels...cheated. That there is so much more than the Western-centric syllabus that was forced down his throat by SHIELD. That there was so much more tragedy than he thought possible, famines and genocides and atrocities whose echoes had never reached his ears. He tells Tony has much, in a fit of frustration.

"There was bravery too," says Tony, quietly, and Steve jolts as if doused with cold water. It is rare for Tony to be so sombre, but when he is, it is breathtaking. Not billionaire, playboy, but genius, philanthropist. Avenger. Iron Man.

Steve nods faintly. "Yes," he says slowly, "I suppose there still is."


	2. Chapter 2

"What on earth is that?" says Steve, when he opens his door at 12.08 am, in his flannel striped pajamas. He knows he looks ridiculous, but is now used enough to Tony's eccentricities that he doesn't feel like a fool.

Tony dangles the boxy package in his hand in front of Steve's nose. "Proof of God's actual existence?"

"You shouldn't joke about that," says Steve, shutting the door, but he's smiling.

Tony walks over to Steve's table like he owns the place (at this point he's been over so many times, he might as well), and puts the package down. He opens it to reveal what looks like a black forest cake with lots of cream.

"I've never had ice cream cake," says Steve, walking over. They both bend over the cake like it is a newborn baby, and Tony wipes his mouth, grinning manically, and says, "You got a knife?"

"Planning murder?" Steve teases.

"It's a cunning plan," Tony says, waggling his eyebrows, in that tone that indicates he is quoting something.

Tony ends up hacking into the cake with Steve's kitchen knife like he really is trying to kill it, his movements big and jerky and so comical that Steve bends over laughing.

"Stop," Steve wheezes in dismay, looking at the sad, half-dissected cake, "you're going to mangle it."

"It's...not my fault...this thing is...like a rock!" Tony grinds out between vicious stabs. Steve finally takes pity on the cake and pries the knife from Tony, shouldering him out of the way despite his protests and going at the cake himself. It is stiff, but Steve slices into it neatly, taking out two generous pieces. Being a supersoldier has its perks, though he's pretty sure Dr. Erskine, God rest his soul, would be rotating in his grave if he knew Steve used his ridiculous strength on butchering stubborn cakes.

They both sit down, and Tony cackles as he tucks in. Steve takes a bite of his own, and it's heavenly, the cake moist and the ice cream melting right in his mouth. It's stupid, it's winter, who eats ice cream in winter – but it's just the kind of thing someone like Tony would do.

When they finish, Tony immediately declares, "I'm bored," and Steve rolls his eyes. Trust Tony to want to be entertained. "You got Netflix?"

"Uh, it's on my list, but I haven't actually installed it yet..."

Tony looks appalled. "What do you even  _do_  on your days off? No, wait, don't answer that, you probably volunteer at soup kitchens and help old ladies across the street."

Steve blushes. "It's a good cause."

Tony ignores him and steamrolls on, "I think you'll enjoy  _Blackadder_ , but, I mean, what all is there on your list?"

"There's...a lot." Steve still cannot wrap his head around the sheer over-abundance of popular movies and TV shows, often dating back to the 60s, sometimes further. There are quite a few he thinks he would like but hasn't got around to watching yet –  _Star Trek_ ,  _The Golden Girls_ ,  _Chariots of Fire, Casablanca, Doctor Zhivago_...and that's not even counting the endless recommendations of Bollywood movies Bruce supplied him with.

"Okay, what's been scratched off?"

"Sam made me watch  _Friends_  and  _Star Wars_." He had adored  _Star Wars_  and all its larger-than-life characters, Obi-Wan in particular. Steve felt awful for him, losing everything like that, forced to live in total seclusion, watching over a child with no thanks yet a totally selfless heart. But  _Friends_  had made him grind his teeth. Everything about it was so  _irritating_  – the cheap humour, the frivolity, the shallowness – and he had squirmed and sighed and nearly died of boredom while Sam guffawed next to him on the couch.

" _Blackadder_  it is," says Tony resolutely, and flops down beside Steve.

It turns out to be a British show, and from the description Steve thinks it might be  _too_  dark and irreverent for his tastes, but within five minutes he's crying with laughter, clutching his stomach and gasping. It's smart and razor-sharp and in your face, with the kind of absolutely scathing sarcasm that Steve can appreciate, in no small part thanks to Peggy, but he's not going to think about that right now. 

(He also suddenly understands where the 'cunning plan' comment came from, and laughs even harder.)

By the time it ends, Tony has fallen asleep, his feet across Steve's lap and his head lolling at an angle that will give him a crick in the morning. Steve opens his mouth to tell him to get up, it's late, he needs to go, but decides he doesn't have the heart. It is late, yes, which is why he should be a good friend and let Tony stay. It has nothing to do with the comfort of knowing someone is there with Steve, even if he is passed out and drooling on Steve's nicest pillow.

So Steve carefully gets up and lays Tony down properly, covering him with a blanket. Tony snuffles and mutters and smushes his face in the pillow. Steve leaves him there and goes to his bed, and, for the first time in weeks, falls asleep as soon as he closes his eyes, and does not dream.

Tony is still slumbering when Steve gets back from his morning workout. It is only when Steve has washed and is making himself coffee that Tony shuffles in, yawning and scratching his head.

"Breakfast?" Steve says warmly. He has not felt this comfortable, this at ease in months.

Tony grunts. Steve expects him to just collapse at the table, but to his surprise Tony walks over and begins to take out eggs and cheese and bread. He is still sleep-rumpled, his eyes half-lidded and blinking slowly, his hair sticking up. He yawns again as he cracks two eggs in a bowl and begins to whisk them.

"I didn't know you cooked," says Steve. He had always assumed that Tony hadn't the capacity to lift a finger for himself. Not for the first time, he mentally hits himself for being so uncharitable towards him.

Tony shrugs, though there is a heaviness to his shoulders, like he is keeping words in his mouth, and it strikes Steve, then, that he knows virtually nothing about Tony. Tony has insinuated himself into Steve's life, and by now knows Steve's daily routines, quirks, and even the kind of mouthwash he prefers (spearmint, non-alcoholic). By contrast, all Steve really knows about Tony, sans his general family background and basic Afghanistan story, is that he is Iron Man and owns SI. It also strikes him that Tony has been the one doing all the heavy lifting in their tentative friendship, and Steve has just... _expected_  him to be there.

He feels like a total heel.

They eat, the morning sunshine streaming through the windows. Tony's gaze is unfocused as he drinks his coffee, his lashes a fragile gold in the hazy light. He appears, in that moment, brittle and open, terribly easy to hurt. Steve makes himself look away, guilt gnawing at him. He has been a terrible friend, accepting Tony's help and companionship while offering nothing in return.

So when they are clearing the plates, Steve says, "Do you, uh, maybe wanna go for a walk? Or a burger? Tomorrow, I mean. In the afternoon. Or. Whenever." Smooth. Maybe he really does need what Hill had called a 'social skills coach' (another of those bizarre modern professions Steve had pulled a face at). As of now, Steve's 'social skills' are limited to minding his p's and q's and replying to text messages painfully slowly with proper grammar and punctuation – something that is, to Steve's eternal bewilderment, now considered borderline hostile.

Tony looks taken aback, and Steve feels another stab of guilt, but then he smiles and says, "I was planning to tinker in my workshop tomorrow, but feel free to join me."

Tony's workshop. In Stark Tower. A part of Steve wants to refuse, wants to insist on Tony coming over or them going for a walk instead, but another part (which he should probably listen to more often) tells him to get out of his damn comfort zone for once. "Sounds nice," he says, and Tony's smile widens, and just like that, Steve already feels good about it.

The next evening, he agonises over what to wear. Stark Tower is so snazzy, and he doesn’t have any particularly good clothes save a tux for formal occasions, and Tony’s been so  _nice_  to him and he doesn’t want to insult Tony by turning up in some sloppy outfit. He wants his old clothes, his suspenders and jacket and shirt, but it's a dated look, and in the end he settles for khakis and a clean blue button-down. Tony will probably laugh and call him an old man anyway.

When he gets to the Tower, he dithers in the foyer because he realises that he doesn’t actually know where the workshop is. “JARVIS?” he says tentatively.

“Good evening, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS replies smoothly. Steve always feels like royalty when JARVIS speaks; Tony sure gave him stellar manners, if nothing else. It makes realise think that Tony is actually aware of what good manners are, even if he isn't always inclined to use them. He probably knows which spoon to use when at fancy dinners, too. “Sir is in his workshop in the basement. Shall I direct you there?”

“Please,” says Steve with relief.

There are inane questions he wants to ask JARVIS as the lift soundlessly takes him down: _Can you see everything in the Tower? What about the bathrooms? Do you have feelings?_ But he’s nervous, his palms all sweaty, his heart beating fast, so he ends up keeping his mouth shut. The door to the workshop turns out to be only a few yards off from the lift, and he stands outside and wrings his hands, wondering if he should knock or call out. JARVIS takes care of that by announcing him, and a few seconds later, the door buzzes and slides open.

Steve walks in and baulks, wondering momentarily if he has slipped through a portal into an even further future. There are little devices whirring and beeping all over the place, and half-finished projects lying around, and a tonne of tools whose names he doesn’t know – the entire place is cast in a soft, blue glow. It's _breathtaking_ , in a way Steve is unaccustomed to. Amid the ordered chaos is Tony himself, hunched over what appears to be one of the Iron Man’s gauntlets, surrounded by warbling robots. “Hey, Capsicle,” says Tony, wiping the tool in his hand on some kind of sponge – it hisses and steams – and straightening to look at him. “Make yourself at home.”

Steve shakes his head, dazed, and looks around. On his left, the upper half of the Iron Man is suspended from the ceiling, its guts of wires spilling down in a grotesque imitation of a dissected human body. Steve is a bit put off, but also fascinated and overwhelmed and really, really impressed – it’s the first time he’s gotten a sense of how much work goes into the suit, that it isn’t just some fantastical weapon created overnight – and it hits him that he’s got one of the most accomplished engineers in the whole world standing right in front of him.

“He should be ready soon enough,” says Tony, sidling up to Steve and wiping sweat from his brow, leaving a dark greasy stain there. Steve shouldn’t have bothered overthinking his outfit – Tony’s decked out in a ratty black tank top and jeans that look like they haven’t ever been washed. Even his beard is untrimmed. Tony scratches at it, unselfconscious, and funnily,  _that’s_  what makes Steve feel all warm inside, like he belongs, like he is as welcome here as he used to be at the Buchanans’.

Then he registers what Tony actually said. “Did you just call this heap of metal a ‘he’?”

“Hey, don’t hurt his feelings. And he’s not a heap of metal, he’s beautiful.”

“Just what exactly is going on with this suit, Tony? Are you sure there isn’t something weird…”

“Oh my God, you sound like Clint, stop sounding like Clint, I will throw you out the window, so help me.”

They’re both laughing now, shaking with it. At length Tony stretches and groans. “I’m gonna be working for a while, but we can order pizza and watch a movie or something – I’m not gonna leave you alone for dinner, I’m not that bad a host, contrary to what Pepper says.”

“You’re not a bad host at all,” says Steve, astonished that Tony could even think that. Tony looks taken aback for a moment, and then covers it up with the smile that he uses for the tabloids. Steve hates it. “Well, let’s see if I can change your mind by tonight,” says Tony _._

He watches Tony potter around, silent and curious – Tony is mesmerising when he works, eyes sharp and mouth a thin line of determination – and then they end up eating pizza on a couch up in the penthouse, but don’t actually watch anything, because they can’t decide what to put on. In the end Tony tells JARVIS to switch off the screen, and they gaze out at the skyline, the crescent moon silvering the clouds above the city.

Steve wonders how the hell he had ever thought Tony wasn’t worth knowing.

***

A couple of weeks later, he is strolling in the park, nodding along to music, and glances at an elderly couple walking arm in arm and smiling at each other. He thinks wistfully of Tony, and then,  _Oh_ _shit_.

***

In hindsight, he shouldn’t be surprised. Tony is…well. He’s loud and blunt and can rub people the wrong way, but he’s also impossibly kind and intelligent and funny. As for Tony’s looks…Steve finds himself dwelling on things he hadn’t really thought about before. The way his lower lashes are so thick that Steve had initially thought he wore kohl. His Van Dyke, neat and stylish, probably rough to the touch.

It is absolutely the wrong thing to happen. Tony doesn’t want him that way. He’s upfront with his flirtations and affections, and he hasn’t made a single move on Steve beyond the light teasing which he extends to pretty much everyone including old grannies with canes and false teeth. Steve paces his apartment, off-balance and skittish, raking his fingers through his hair. He does not know what to do, and that has never sat well with him – all his life, even if he was unsure of the right course of action, he would just pick a direction and soldier on. Now...now he's not sure he can pick one at all.

So he goes for distraction.

Steve can’t get drunk, but he heads to a bar a few blocks off anyway, deliberately facing the room at large and leaving his body language open. He's never done this before and is almost certain it won't work, but it doesn’t take long for some John in a denim jacket to sit on Steve’s table and eye him up and down. “Buy you a drink, gorgeous?” the man says with a smirk.

Steve almost says, “Let’s just cut to the chase,” but that would likely make the man walk away, so he nods. He just wants to forget about Tony for a while, maybe get laid. That’s what people are supposed to do to blow off steam these days, right? Meet strangers at bars and go to hotels with them? Contrary to popular assumption, he doesn’t have a particularly high libido, and he’s never looked at someone and thought, “I’d have sex with them,” but he guesses he could do with a warm body and sensations he enjoys.

The man returns with two whiskeys on the rocks. He is handsome enough, but most importantly, looks nothing like Tony – red-haired and strong-jawed and very pale, with the majority of his muscle in his legs. Steve is barely into half of his drink when the man leans over slowly, giving Steve enough time to back off. He cards his fingers through Steve's hair, cups his face and kisses him. Steve allows it, closes his eyes and opens his mouth. It's a nice kiss, sweet and just this side of wanton. They part and the man murmurs, "Wanna take this upstairs? There's usually no one there at this time."

The most eloquent thing Steve can manage is, "Sure." He's not thrilled at the idea of hooking up with someone in a public place, but he can't bring himself to care much.

The man leads him by the hand, and they stumble a bit in the dark hallway, and then Steve is being pushed against the door of what is probably a broom closet. It's all tangled limbs and awkward angles and breath that smells of alcohol. The man kisses his neck, breathes, "God, you're so hot, how are you this hot?" and Steve is flattered for a second and then just feels used. He knows it's supposed to feel good, when someone thinks you're attractive, but all he can think of is how this encounter doesn't really mean anything, how this man will finish and stuff himself back in his pants and forget about him the next day. In that moment Steve is so uncomfortable, so miserably  _lonely_ , but before he can tell the man that this is a mistake and he'd like to go home now, he feels a hand palming him and gasps.

It happens relatively quickly after that. The man takes Steve's hand and makes him jerk him off, then does the same for Steve, furrowing his brow and cracking a cheap one when Steve doesn't get hard immediately. After it's over and they're still catching their breath, the man pulls Steve close, kisses him deep and dirty, and says, "Thanks for tonight, babe," and Steve kind of wants to kick himself for thinking this could ever be a solution.

He goes for a forty-mile run the next morning, feels better; there's sweat on his face and dirt all over his socks, his heart pounding. He stops just as the sky is being painted in gold and pink, sitting on a bench and watching the sun rise. He's craving a sesame seed bagel and coffee but is too comfortable to get up.

"I thought I'd find you here," intones a familiar voice.

"Tony," Steve says, surprised.

Tony takes a seat next to him on the bench. There are rings beneath his eyes and his hair is greasy and in disarray, like he hadn't bothered to comb it after he got out of bed. Even this way, he is beautiful. 

"Isn't it early for you?" says Steve.

Tony gives him a wry look. "Believe it or not, I do know how to get up at the ass crack of dawn."

"You didn't sleep, did you."

Tony doesn't reply, just closes his eyes, and Steve wonders, with distant calm, how he came to care so much for this man, who should not be in front of him, who should not exist until years after Steve's death. Steve marvels at the mundane aspects of him: There is frost on his temples. He is wearing a coat with a small stain on the left breast. His long, knotty hands are restless, fidgeting with his sunglasses. Steve wants to hold those hands in his, run his fingers over the callused skin, over the burn marks and pale, thread-like scars. He wants to put his head on Tony's shoulder and fall asleep that way, the scent of him in Steve's nose.

Steve doesn't say any of that. "Wanna get breakfast?"

"Oh darling, you do right by me," says Tony with a big grin, suddenly energetic as he jumps up to his feet. He beckons Steve closer with his hands. "Come here and give me a kiss."

Steve calmly opens his bottle cap and chucks water at his face.

***

It’s not as easy now, knowing what he knows about himself. Somewhere between hacking into ice cream cakes and being sprayed by DUM-E’s fire extinguisher, he started to lean on Tony in a way he shouldn’t have. He let Tony whisk away the bulk of Steve’s hurt and fear, and now Steve won’t be able to function properly without him. It’s not fair to either of them – Steve needs to learn how to be happy on his own and Tony does not need a clingy supersoldier from the 40’s emotionally blackmailing him by admitting he’s forgotten how to survive without Tony.

So the next time Tony calls up on his StarkPhone (a Christmas gift), asking to go out for Burmese, Steve says, "I'm busy that day."

"No problem," says Tony, undaunted, "we can do the day after, or the next week."

"No, I, uh, have a thing...it will carry on all week, sorry."

After the call ends he just stands there for a moment, staring at the screen, and then takes a deep breath. He is a soldier. He can do this. He has single-handedly taken down Hydra bases. He does not need Tony following him around like some over-excited, stubborn Labrador. He tells himself this as he pulls on his socks and trainers, as he trudges to the SHIELD gym, as he pummels punching bag after punching bag till an assistant comes meekly up to him and asks him to kindly save a couple for other agents.

But Tony is, well, Tony. As chipper as a squirrel. As subtle as a brick. Steve finds himself hemming and hawing into the phone while Tony chatters about a potential road trip to New England, barring any surprise alien invasions or melodramatic Hydra villains. In the end Steve blabs something about an undercover mission with Natasha in Utah ("Utah? Why the fuck – ") and cuts the line.

He keeps at it, turning down Tony again and again. Toothless excuses that leave Steve aching and guilty (he wants Tony’s voice, Tony’s dark liquid eyes, Tony’s whip-sharp mind), but he can’t be selfish and shove his problems onto other people. He's Captain America. He will act like it.

But his days are grey and empty again, and his exercise – which he’d started to enjoy once more after Tony had settled into his life – does virtually nothing for him. He falls into thinking about Bucky and Peggy again, wishing so badly that they were here, that he were back there. His life has been bizarre, something out of a science fiction novel, and there's no reason, none, that he won't ever be able to go back. To the war, yes, and to disease and pollution and poverty, but also to friends, to the work he signed up for. To home.

 _You were given a home here_ , a treacherous voice in his head hisses,  _and you've chosen to throw it away._ Steve pinches himself, hard enough to draw blood.

He makes plans with Sam the next day, then with Natasha. He talks to people at the gym, tries to find common ground. He goes to art galleries and museums. Everything a healthy, well-adjusted person does. It helps a bit. Mostly, he just misses Tony, and chastises himself for it.  _You can't be this feeble. You can't use him like this._  He throws himself into his work; he is careful for his life but welcomes pain, welcomes anger – anything to stop himself thinking about how happy he had been when he had failed at managing his own life and fully leaned on someone he'd not even liked at first.

***

When his doorbell rings one night in late spring, Steve knows it’s Tony, and doesn’t move from his bed. Maybe if he ignores Tony, he'll go away.

“Steve?” comes Tony’s voice. “Open the door or I’m breaking it down.”

“The hell?” says Steve, throwing his blanket off and beginning to stand up. “You can’t do that.”

“Picking a lock is the easiest thing in the world for me, Cap, and if that fails I can just use my repulsor. I’m counting to ten.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“One,” Tony calls blithely. “Two.” 

Steve wrenches open the door. “For Christ’s sake,” he hisses.

“Let me in,” says Tony, all mirth gone from his face, and there is something disquieting about a grim, serious Tony, a reminder that he is, in many ways, a hard man, and a dangerous one, if required. A man so staggeringly intelligent he uses quips to convince people he is anything but, because it’s deeply uncomfortable, knowing that he could kill you in cruel and unusual ways with nothing but the everyday objects scattered about an ordinary room – without any formal training. Natasha is lethal, but she was bred to it. Tony? He was just born that way.

Steve steps aside. Tony comes in and sits at the table, as casual as ever, and remains pointedly silent till Steve gives in and takes a seat across from him. “What’s going on?” says Tony, looking right at Steve.

Steve doesn’t insult Tony by pretending he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “It’s not your business,” he says instead.

“We spent practically every other day together for the past six months, and you suddenly up and disappear. Don’t bullshit me.” He narrows his eyes. “Is someone blackmailing you? Telling you to stay away from me?”

Steve boggles. “What? No, of course not!”

“Because it wouldn’t be the first time; Pepper’s had threats sent to her, it’s usually from business rivals or your garden variety nutjob – ”

“No one is blackmailing me. Also, is Miss Potts – “

“Don’t change the subject. This is about you and me.”

“There’s nothing,” growls Steve, growing frustrated. “There is  _nothing_  between you and me.”

“Do you want there to be?”

Steve shuts up, floored. Tony looks at him calmly, but Steve feels like there is a laser boring into his chest. How could Tony possibly know? Steve has said nothing. They’ve done nothing. They’ve barely touched each other. “What?” he says, numb, his tongue too big for his mouth.

Tony doesn’t repeat himself, just blinks placidly and waits for Steve to gather his wits. He doesn’t, just sits there and gapes, his mind a soft buzz of static.

“Wow, and I thought I was bad at talking,” says Tony dryly.

“I…” Panic rises, hot and suffocating, in his chest. His head feels light, like he’s underwater, his vision going fuzzy around the edges. There’s no sequential thought, just an endless loop of  _he knows he knows he knows_ and nothing else exists, nothing else will ever exist.

“Steve?” says Tony. “Steve, hey, breathe with me, it’s okay.” He walks over and kneels by Steve, his knees cracking.

Oh God, Tony is right there, right next to him, oh God, he  _knows_.

“I need you to name three blue things in the room. Can you do that?”

Steve looks up, breathing hard. Everything is out of focus, a blurry video. He manages to obey; it's the one thing he knows how to do. “Curtains,” he says at last. “Bedcover. Book.”

“Good, very good, Steve. Now, can you name three red things?”

They go on like that, Steve babbling softly while Tony rubs at his shoulder and makes short, simple requests. Eventually Steve calms down, still panicked and afraid, but no longer out of control. “There we go,” says Tony gently. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you that badly.”

“You…” Steve swallows, and Tony produces a handkerchief, grasping Steve’s chin and dabbing at his face. The cloth comes away wet. Steve is mortified; he can't stand that Tony knows he's like this. Weak. Broken in ways that make most people uneasy. He wants to run away, unsure if he can ever be normal around Tony again. If Tony will ever see him as normal again.

“How do you know how to handle panic attacks?” he rasps instead, waiting for the disgust, or worse, the mealy-mouthed pity parading itself as concern.

Tony tucks the handkerchief back in his pocket, his expression giving nothing away. “I get them. Don’t really like people to be around me, though.”

Steve feels the colour drain from his face. _I get them_. Like they are commonplace. Had Tony been dealing with those things alone? He imagines Tony, hunched over on the floor, rocking himself, rattling off numbers and colours and names, because he can’t manage anything more complicated, in an attempt to retain some semblance of sanity. He imagines him getting up on shaky legs, downing a drink, and walking out like nothing happened. Steve hates that he hadn’t been able to help, even if he didn’t know.

Tony is still rubbing circles into his shoulder, and it is the vulnerability of the moment, coupled with Steve's long weariness, that allows him to blurt, “I’m too dependent on you.”

Tony frowns. “What?”

Steve sticks his knuckles into his eyes. “Tony, I…I’m a mess.” It is humiliating, this confession, but another part of him is relieved, that these words he has been hiding for so long can spill out. “I came out of the ice, and nothing mattered to me. I fought because I’m a solider, because I had to. Then the fighting stopped and I had nothing else to think about, nothing to fall back on.”

Tony has sat back in his chair, which Steve is immensely grateful for, because he couldn’t have handled Tony towering above him or breathing right in his face. “Food didn’t taste good. It was stupid. I didn’t know anyone.” He knows what he is saying is disjointed, illogical, but Tony doesn’t interrupt. “Then you…I started spending time with you. And at some point, I started being happy. I  _liked_  spending time with you, and it bled into everything else. I could run and actually feel the sun on me. I could eat and actually taste the food. I could refuse the stupid SHIELD therapist and actually mean it.” He puts his head in his hands, rakes his fingers through his hair. “I used you. You’re not a crutch, but I treated you like one. I’m sorry.”

“Steve…”

“I need to learn to stand on my own feet again.”

“Steve,” says Tony again, patiently, “It’s okay to need people. If you felt lost, and I helped in any way, then I’m glad for it. I…I knew you were going through a tough time, that you maybe needed a friend, so I took you around, did stuff with you. I enjoyed it. So if you want someone to blame, pick me. And if…if you don’t want to hang out anymore, if you need the space, that’s fine too.”

Steve is silent, trying to digest everything Tony has said. It is better than anything he had hoped for from Tony. “I felt like I had a home again,” he says hoarsely. He feels a hand over his, callused and warm, and raises his head to find Tony looking at him. “Me too, Steve,” he says with a crooked smile. Steve looks to their joined hands, his brain short-circuiting with  _what, how, when_ , and Tony draws away, going white. “I’m so sorry, I read this wrong – ”

“No,” says Steve quickly, grappling for Tony’s fingers again. “No, you…” He takes Tony’s hand in his clumsily, clutches hard. It’s sweaty and warm and Tony's nails are digging into his palm and it’s perfect, it’s  _perfect_. “I want this.” He takes a breath. “I want this,” he repeats, surer now, allowing it to seep into his bones. It feels like standing on the edge of a precipice and diving, unaware if whatever is below will kill you, and accepting it anyway. “If you do.”

Tony gives a rough laugh. "Are you kidding me? What kind of question is that?" He raises Steve's hand to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles, his gaze lowered, shy almost. It's the most intimate thing Steve has ever experienced, and his breath catches. He reaches out tentatively to brush the backs of his fingers over Tony's cheek, where a cut from their last mission has scabbed over. It's electric, sending little pinpricks up his arm. How could so little have such an effect on him?

"I want you to stay," whispers Steve. "Can you stay?"

Tony squeezes his hand, nods.

It only takes a few minutes for Steve to straighten up the bed and fetch an extra pillow and glass of water, and for Tony to slip into Steve's old nightclothes. Tony sits gingerly at the edge of the bed, looking strangely vulnerable, his hair all askew, the T-shirt slipping off his shoulder. Steve reaches out, cups his chin, awed that he is being allowed this. "You okay?" he asks.

Tony gives a brittle smile. "A lot better than okay."

Steve bends down, kisses his cheekbone, and feels something like hope well in him.

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://lilaclotuses.tumblr.com/)


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